


The Thoroughly Imbecilic Scotland Yard

by fiveainley_ohmy



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Flirting, Fluff, Lestrade is clueless, Love Bites, M/M, Victorian Attitudes, victorian husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-30 11:29:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8531302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiveainley_ohmy/pseuds/fiveainley_ohmy
Summary: Lestrade doesn't know what's going on. And he doesn't really want to.





	

Mrs. Hudson showed Inspector Lestrade into the parlor of 221B Baker Street, where the consulting detective and his faithful doctor were sitting across from each other in front of the fireplace, as per the usual. "Ah, Lestrade," said Holmes amicably, drawing from his pipe. "I trust you've brought us news on the Thompson investigation."

"Yes, Mister Holmes. As you suspected, it was the gardener who killed him. Missus Thompson confessed to us that they were having an affair."

"I never suspected, Inspector," Holmes corrected. "I knew. One glance at the smudge of garden dirt on the lady's bedsheets and the facts were perfectly elementary."

"Brilliant as ever, Holmes," grinned Watson. He turned to the inspector and asked, "I take it the gardener's been taken in?"

"Oh yes. Poor lad. Young thing. I almost feel sorry for him," Lestrade admitted. "Love will drive a good man to crime if needs must."

Holmes sniffed. "Loving someone is no excuse for breaking the law."

Lestrade cocked his head to the side curiously. A moderate discoloration was peeking out from the edge of the consulting detective's collar. It was hard to make out in the low light. "I say, Mister Holmes, what's that mark on your neck?" he inquired, pointing.

Holmes, to the inspector's bemusement, suddenly blushed vermillion. He clasped one pale, long fingered hand over the mark. "Just a mild bruise," he replied. "Science experiment gone wrong. Nothing to worry yourself about." The good doctor seemed to be trying not to laugh.

"Ah," said Lestrade, smiling and nodding understandingly. The detective was just embarrassed about his failure. The insecurity of genius. "Well then, gents, I'll be leaving. Just wanted to pass along the gratitude of Scotland Yard once again for your help." He nodded his head, wished them a "good afternoon", and showed himself out.

Once the inspector was gone, Holmes shot his still-chuckling Boswell a hard look. Watson smiled only slightly apologetically and said, "Well, it serves you right for acting like a heartless humbug, my love."

Holmes harrumped and adjusted his collar to hide the mark on his neck. "We have _got_ to be more careful."

"I can't help it," smirked Watson, a flirtatious twinkle in his eye. "That pretty skin simply begs to be marked up."

Holmes blushed lightly. "John Hamish Watson, I do believe you are the devil himself."

"Come over here and let me show you just how bad I can be."

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, guys. After a truly awful week (my American readers and anyone who's clued into American politics know what I mean), I needed to write this fluff. No matter how fucked up the world is, we'll always have the love of these pasty Victorian wrinkles. If Holmes and Watson have survived all these decades, we'll make it through the next four years. Stronger together.


End file.
